In 1871 I first made the acquaintance of E. J. Odell, the actor. He then seemed to be a man well advanced in middle age. He is still alive—one of the features and mysteries of the Strand. He is the last of the Bohemians—the survival of days (to quote Eccles) “as is gone most like forever.” He has contrived to make a lasting reputation as an actor. His impersonations were usually in burlesque or opera-bouffe. I can personally recall two of his Metropolitan engagements. One of these was in a burlesque at the Gaiety. But he failed there to justify the high expectations of the management. Even at rehearsal there were difficulties. Bob Soutar was stage-manager, and, being a bit of a martinet, he and Odell did not quite “hit it.” Odell played on tour as Gaspard the miser in “Les Cloches de Corneville,” and I believe acquitted himself very creditably, which is no small thing to say of any performer following Shiel Barry in the same part. For Barry’s performance was one of the finest bits of acting seen on the London stage in my time. On the first night of Shiel Barry’s appearance in the part, I first understood the meaning of the phrase (Edmund Kean’s, is it not?), “The Pit rose at me.” When the curtain fell on the second act of “Les Cloches,” moved by the intensity of Shiel Barry’s acting in the final scene of the act, the audience rose to their feet in all parts of the house. It was an outburst of genuine enthusiasm which called the performer before the curtain again and again. Lord Kilmorey—at that time Lord Newry—was sitting next to me in the stalls. He does not strike one as being a very emotional sort of nobleman; but he was carried away like the rest of us by a wave of pulsating fervour which was quite irresistible. But to return to Odell. If that gentleman has not achieved a long record of successes _on_ the stage, he has certainly made a great reputation _off_ it. My friend Hollingshead was right when he described Odell as a monologue entertainer. His entertainments, to be successful, must, however, be of a private or semi-private nature. Certain of his ballads are conceived more or less on the lines of Sala’s “Bet Belmanor.” One of them was a weird thing commencing: “Oh! was it in the garding, Or was it in the ’all?” He had an unctuous manner of rendering this gem which was quite his own—a manner unique and of humour all compact.